


A little discussion later

by WeeSweetieMice



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Break Up, Directly after the Specials, M/M, Make Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-24
Updated: 2014-11-24
Packaged: 2018-02-26 21:18:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2666669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeeSweetieMice/pseuds/WeeSweetieMice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Relax, he has never hit anyone! Or at least anyone he's hit has never had the balls to take it to a superior."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A little discussion later

**Author's Note:**

> Starts later on the day that Spinners and Losers ended. I hate that Jamie just disappeared on a sour note. Even if he didn't come back to Number 10 I still want him back with Malcolm.

 

"Where the fuck are you?"

"Home. I'm at home. What did you expect?"

"You never go home. D'you even know where you live?"

"I know I don't live with you. I know you might _think_ I live with you but just because six days of the week I'm in your fucking bed sucking your fucking cock doesn't mean that I'll be there on the seventh. Even God took that day off and that cunt was almighty."

"You're still mad about this morning."

"Oh, very perceptive, Derren fucking Brown. You said I leaked. I don't fucking leak. Or if I _do_ leak, I leak strategically. I know how to leak, you lanky nutter cunt."

"Oh, so this is about Tom."

"Fuck Tom. He won't amount to anything, not without your hand up his arse giving him his Prozac suppositories. Which, by the way, you'd probably enjoy, you bent fucking nutter whore."

A pause then a reply. "You went against me."

"I went against YOU? You've sold out, pal. You've fucking sold out."

"Yeah? Well, _I_ still have a job."

Silence. Angry silence. Painful silence. And then the _beep beep beep_ of an ended call.

 

It took Jamie two days to find gainful employment. It took the staff at the Bank of England two months to accept that he wasn't there to maim them. Word filtered back, as word was wont to do, that the Monetary Policy Committee was keeping interest rates stable by dint of sheer terror. No one mentioned Number 10 to the swearing Scot with the manic glint in his eye. Anyone who had heard anything about That Night suddenly remembered they'd heard nothing at all.

Then came the call to the Treasury Select Committee.

Jamie knew he couldn't avoid the House of Commons but he felt about as much loyalty to the place as Guy Fawkes (in the role of Catholic Action Hero rather than Treasonous Would-be Murderer, though in his darker moments he had great plans for a barrel of gunpowder). He would have to go; he would have to keep an eye on the useless abacus-wielding fuckers, none of whom seemed to be able to count without using the fingers that Jamie had recently threatened to remove with a blunted hole punch. And so he went, carrying his aggression like a pint that was ripe to be spilled.

Malcolm was not there. There wasn't any particular reason why he _should_ have been there but Jamie knew that Malcolm would know that Jamie would be there. And therefore, as a personal insult, the fucker had made sure he wasn't.

Jamie, having spent the afternoon destroying the lids of at least fifteen biros by tearing them with his teeth, left the seat of government at 7pm. By the time he'd reached Charing Cross he had walked some of the tension out of him. He felt the need to redress this by getting at least halfway to absolutely pished and thus began this noble task by ducking into a sidestreet pub that he knew sold Irish measures, and ordering a pint of lager wi' a half'un on the side. He was into his fourth of these when the light was blocked by a figure looming over his seat in the corner and he didn't have to look up to recognise the coat, or the shoes, or the hand that set another whisky on the table.

"Fuck off."

"I see your manners have improved."

"Fuck off, you poisonous grey cunt."

Malcolm pulled the opposite chair out from under the table and sat down decisively. Jamie raised his head and glared at him.

"What do you want?"

Malcolm shrugged.

"Did you fucking follow me?"

Malcolm raised an eyebrow.

"You fucking did, you spying shite. You're a worse James Bond than Ollie fucking Reeder."

"Jamie," said Malcolm, and the way he said it made Jamie want to punch him and want to cry at the same time. Jamie wasn't comfortable with wanting to cry so he took the only other course of action and swung his fist, hard, at Malcolm's face.

A roar went up from the tables around them and they both found themselves hauled to their feet, glass smashing on the floor, and unceremoniously shoved out of the door. Malcolm stood stock still by the edge of the pavement, breathing heavily, his face half-lit by the streetlight, a thin trickle of blood running from his lip. Jamie, two paces away, was coiled energy and rage, awaiting the slightest signal to move again.

"Fuck this," spat Malcolm, and walked away. He managed ten paces before the noise of running feet kicked in and he was suddenly slammed between his shoulder blades by what felt like (and turned out to be) someone's head. He stumbled forward, losing his balance and toppling to the cold ground. Jamie loomed over him, his fist drawn back.

"Stab me in the back, now kick me in it, is that it?" wheezed Malcolm.

"Get up."

"So you can hit me again? No thanks."

"Get up, Malc. Now."

"I'm not fighting you, Jamie. Psychological maiming, that's my thing."

"Yeah, well you've done enough of that. Time to do things my way."

Malcolm contemplated this, then slowly reached out a hand to be helped to his feet. Jamie grasped it to haul him up but instead Malcolm pulled him forward, sending him sprawling onto the deserted street beside him. Before Jamie could voice his outrage Malcolm had rolled over to face him and planted a firm kiss on the younger man's mouth, effectively silencing the torrent of abuse about to be unleashed. And then he laughed happily; threw his head back and laughed while Jamie stared at him incredulously until Malcolm stopped to look him in the eye and, running a hand through his hair and wiping the blood from his face, said "Jesus, Jamie, it's been fucking _boring_ without you."


End file.
